


All The Difference

by Ermmm67



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death, Death Eaters, Drama, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Romance, F/M, Imprisonment, M/M, My First Work, Obsession, Possessive Voldemort (Harry Potter), Psychopath, Slow Burn, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:08:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28392180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ermmm67/pseuds/Ermmm67
Summary: Small changes can make all the difference. An unintended love left ignored can be dangerous. Over the years and throughout their different encounters, something is happening between Harry and Voldemort. Something that is very small at first, and ignored by both. Until the day Voldemort realizes what Harry Potter is, and that small thing becomes something much bigger, much harder to ignore, and much more dangerous.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 11
Kudos: 66





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first time writing any kind of fanfiction. I've had the beginning of this story in my head for a while and wanted to get it out, so thanks for taking the time to read it! I've also tried really hard to keep it true to the book and canon timeline as I (at least in the beginning) including copying some of the original dialog from the book. Just wanted to throw that out there and, of course, a disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter (probably for the best).

There is little that marks the heart as unintended love does. In silence it creeps, hidden in the shadows of pride and denial. When its victim is not looking, it begins cutting its name into their heart, the shallow beginning of a branding. And as time passes, the name is pressed deeper into the organ, so that even if the wound should heal there will always be the faintest scar. But the stronger the victim resists-the longer he denies the presence of this love-the more viciously the name is carved. Obsession and madness rear their heads-if, indeed, they were not already present. As he becomes more and more desperate to not care for the named one, to not face the name that has been shredding his heart, he tries to direct his emotions, and make sense of them in a way he can accept-and there is always a fine line between love and hate. His hate, though true enough, masks the even truer love he could never admit to.

* * *

The hoot of an owl fell upon the otherwise quiet street in Godric’s Hollow. Though owls were usually rarely seen, the residents of the Hollow were quite used to the birds. The muggles had grown accustomed to the common sightings, though they never understood why there were always so many owls about. The muggles didn’t know that many of their neighbors were from another world than them, or that the village had ancient ties with wizards and their history. The muggles didn’t even know that the Hollow itself was named for a very famous wizard born there many, many years ago.

The muggles certainly didn’t know that wizarding history would again be made there tonight.

The houses were dark and the people of the village slept peacefully, oblivious to the faint sound of rustling in the distance. This sound, like a flag in a windstorm, grew louder and closer until suddenly it silenced and a man in black stood on the street in front of a house. The man was tall. His skin was pale and burned, and his features distorted. His eye whites were bloody and a terrible sight to see. The house was the Potter’s.

Lord Voldemort stood with an energy of victory. His magic around him crackled, almost visible. For decades the wizard had been growing and gaining power. The War had lasted a long and glorious eleven years. He had become known throughout all of Britain, his very name too fearsome to be said aloud. It felt as though all the years and deaths and sacrifices had led him here, to the moment that would solidify his victory. Dumbledore and his few remaining minions would be crushed along with their last remaining hope. Fate herself would be thwarted at his hand when he eliminated the child of the prophesy-the child that had eluded him for over a year. But no more. The Fidelius Charm had been broken. The rat ruled by fear had come running to its master without hesitation to give up what Voldemort most wanted. The Dark Lord wasted no time in setting off to substantiate his righteous triumph.

He glided noiselessly toward the house. The curtains were pulled aside, and there was a clear view into the sitting-room of the child, who was laughing as he played with his father. A door opened and his mother entered the room. The man picked up the child and handed him to her, then threw his wand on the couch and stretched and yawned. Lord Voldemort pushed open the gate and pointed his wand at the front door which burst open before him. As he entered, James Potter came sprinting in, but Voldemort sneered seeing the fool hadn’t even picked up his wand.

“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off-”

Hold him off? Without even a wand? Voldemort laughed at how easy this was after all this time, and cast the curse.

“Avada Kedavra!” A green flash filled the hallway. The body that was Jams Potter collapsed. Voldemort could hear the girl scream from above, and he made his way up the stairs. He could hear her moving heavy things in a desperate attempt to barricade the door and keep him out, and he cackled in amusement. Did she too not have her wand? How foolish were these people to put such blind trust in friends that they would leave themselves defenseless for even a second? Perhaps it was for the best that they had refused his offer to join his side, to become Death Eaters. He had not been aware he had been inviting such soft-hearted stupidity. Still, she had nothing to fear, if she listened. Voldemort had made a promise to Severus, and he would be true to his word-to a point. He had promised a chance, and a chance he would give.

At the top of the steps, he forced open the door. She had piled a chair and some boxes in front of the doorway in her feeble attempt, but he toppled them with a wave of his hand. She stood there, his prey in her arms, shaking. As he entered the room she turned and placed the child in the cot and stood with her arms stretched out, as if anything she did would protect him, as if she thought if Voldemort couldn’t see him, he would kill only her in his place.

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”

“Stand aside, you silly girl…stand aside, now…”

“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead-”

“This is my last warning”

“Not Harry! Please … have mercy … have mercy … Not Harry! Not Harry! Please – I’ll do anything-”

“Stand aside – stand aside, girl-”

How many chances did he need to give her? Did she not see that it was pointless for her to die? Her death would save no one. But it seemed such fools could not be reasoned with. And such foolery would be dangerous left alive when it went seeking for revenge. There was no point in letting her live now when she would just cause further trouble later. He said the curse, and she, too, crumpled to the ground in a green flash, lifeless as her husband. He wondered, for a moment, if he would now have to kill Severus as well. The boy would not have been so callously brave to plead for this woman’s life if he in turn did not love her to the same magnitude that she had loved the child. Severus was one of his most talented spies, but Voldemort was sure he could not be trusted after this. What a waste…

All this time the child had not cried. He’d watched with curiosity the death of his mother but could not have understood. The child probably thought they were playing with colorful lights, and he might even have thought that the man under the hood was his father. But he could see the stranger’s face now and he did not like it. Voldemort watched as the child’s great, bright green eyes wetted with tears that rolled down his face. The Dark Lord was taken aback, for just a moment, at how much like the woman’s they were. The child, standing and clinging to the edge of his crib, began to wail. Voldemort grit his teeth at the sound. He had always been irritated by the endless crying of the infants in the orphanage. He raised his wand to the boy’s face, the helpless child who was supposedly his greatest enemy. In a wave of fury-an emotion he thought was beneath him-he snarled at this insult. But, he reminded himself, this was still his moment of triumph. With this child’s end would he, the great Lord Voldemort, defy fate, claim mastery over death, and usher in a new era for wizards and muggles alike-all in their proper place, with himself at the head of it all.

“Avada Kedavra!”

For just a moment, he had felt within him the beating of two hearts, and then just the one-unfamiliar and small-and then none. In an instant, he was nothing. Pain and terror wracked over him, though he had no substance. He was weakened to nothing, shattered by this great loss, this unimaginable defeat. He was now something that was barely even alive, entirely powerless, in agony from being ripped from his own body. He had become an impossible being of nothingness, tied to this world by a shattered soul and his meager consciousness. The child was screaming now, and blood was streaming from a ragged cut on his forehead. The child was there, trapped in the filthy ruin of a house, but Voldemort could stay no longer. He needed to hide, get away, far away…

The once-great lord fled the house and the Hollow in an impossible search to find safety and to regain his power. The child stayed put in his crib crying in pain and fear for hours. He didn’t notice when a rat crept into the room, turned into a man, looked around in horror, grabbed a forgotten wand from the ground, and slipped out of the house. Sometime later, a great man with a great, bushy beard appeared above him. The man, who had been crying, took out a handkerchief and blew his nose before picking up the newly-orphaned child. The man held back great sobs so that he might not scare the child further, but he sniffled and said to himself, “Oh, poor lil’ tyke. An’ Lily and James! It jus’ ain’t fair. It jus’ ain’t…” He pushed his way back through the rubble with the child beginning to fall asleep in his arms. As he made it out of the front door, a mechanical whirring sound could be heard from above, and the huge man startled to see a flying motorbike coming down to land. A man with shaggy black hair dismounted the bike and ran up to the larger man.

“Hagrid! What happened? It's not, true tell me it's not-where are they?” He asked desperately before yelling back through the doorway, “James! Lily!” He looked into Hagrid’s blubbering face and noticed, for the first time, the sleeping child in Hagrid’s arms. He shook his head in despair.

“They’re gone, Sirius,” Hagrid sobbed. “Lil’ Harry here made it, but Lily and James…” Hagrid broke into great sobs here, startling the child awake so that he began to cry as well. Hagrid tried to calm himself so he could comfort the child.

“Oh, Merlin.” Sirius was bent over himself like he was going to vomit. Hearing Harry’s cries, he looked up. “Harry…what happened to him? How is he still…?” Hagrid answered with another round of sobs. Sirius took a deep breath of air and reached out his arms. “Here, give him to me. He’s my godson, and my best friends’ son. He’s…my responsibility now.” Sirius tried to push back the anguish he felt at the moment so that he could give his godson what he needed.

Hagrid took a few breaths, sniffled, and said, “Professor Dumbledore is wantin' ter see ‘im. I ‘ave orders ter take him stra' ter Dumbledore. You should come with, Sirius, talk ter Dumbledore, I expec he’ll be wantin' ter see yeh.”

But Sirius wasn’t looking at Hagrid anymore. His hands had fallen to his side, and he looked like he was sniffing the air. His eyes were wide with fury and shock, and if Hagrid hadn’t still been crying, he might have heard Sirius mumble the words, “That rat…” Sirius looked to Hagrid with a desperate hunger in his eyes. “You’re right, Hagrid. Take Harry, far away from here. I have something to take care of. Here, take my bike, I…I won’t be needing it anymore.”

Hagrid wiped his nose with his handkerchief. “Are yeh sure yeh don’ wanna come, Sirius?”

“Yes...I’m sure. You should get going, get Harry somewhere safe. I have to go. Be careful. I don’t know what all of this means, but we can’t assume that we’re safe yet.”

“Alrigh’.” Hagrid secured infant Harry safely within his overcoat and clamored onto the motorbike. “I’ll be seein' yeh, and be safe, too.” Hagrid started up the bike and lifted up into the air.

Sirius looked up at the great man upon the bike as they few away. “Goodbye, Harry.” Moments later, a large black dog disappeared into the shadows of Godric’s Hollow.

In the days to come, all of the wizarding world was celebrating the defeat of a tyrant, and holding up their glasses and saying: “To Harry Potter-The Boy Who Lived!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really put a lot of effort into making this chapter realistic. I researched where Voldemort was, what state he was in, and the magical and non-magical biodiversity of Albania to add a bit of background setting. I had fun with this research. I like exploring who the characters are according to cannon, what could have been happening in the background, and who they realistically could have been if there was a small push in another direction. I hope you can enjoy reading this and future chapters, as much as I enjoy writing them! 😊

Rising mountains and forest valleys make up much of Albania, and these forests are riddled with magical ties. In the northern heights of the country, hippogriffs fly free and nest in high crags. At the base of these mountains, the tough-skinned Graphorns can occasionally be seen being ridden by brave-or foolish-mountain trolls. Solitary hags live in old, run-down cottages, fairies dance in mushroom patches, and flobberworms flobber in dense vegetation. However, in a southern forest, not far from a muggle village, darker secrets than the happenings of trolls and hags had left a rancid stain.

Long ago, the daughter of a great witch stole from her mother a treasure: a diadem that was said to enhance the wisdom of its wearer. The girl fled to hide in this forest. Her mother sent a wizard to find her. He was a noble-born Barron who had fallen in love with the girl. But the girl would not love him back, and she refused to return with him. In a blind rage, the Barron struck the girl dead. When he realized what he had done, he was overcome with grief. He took his life with the same weapon that had killed the girl. And so, the diadem was lost for centuries. Until one day, a young man with a broken soul spoke to the ghost of the girl, and she shared with him the location of the diadem. He uncovered the relic from under the old remains of a hollow tree. With the darkest of magic and the murder of a peasant from the nearby village, the man shattered his soul once more and left with the repurposed diadem in hand.

Decades later, the same man by a different name and no longer a man at all slithered through the underbrush of the same forest where he had found Ravenclaw’s Diadem. For years since his great defeat, he had been without form, less than a ghost, each second forcing himself to exist. Without a body, he was the weakest creature alive. Unable to wield a wand, he had no means of returning to himself. At first, he had waited with certainty that he would be found. He was sure his followers would seek him out-they knew he had taken steps to overcome death, they must have known he was somewhere, waiting for them! But his loyal followers had failed him.

Ten years passed, and the once-great Dark Lord had only one power left: he could possess the bodies of others. But he knew better than to go where there were many people, for Aurors still searched for him, and he was powerless in his weakened state. During this time Voldemort would often inhabit the bodies of animals, as this offered him relief from his constant pain, though these bodies could not offer him the ability to perform magic, and they never lasted long once he had taken control.

Now, the body of a nose-horned viper held what was left of the wizard. It was a venomous, fierce-looking creature with a horn rising from its nostrils pointing up and out. Voldemort felt no pride in lacking the ability to perform magic or swallowing down rats and lizards to sustain his host body, but there was some amount of gratification he could glean from taking the form of a beast such as this. Still, a beast it was, and human souls were not meant to inhabit other bodies. He pushed himself forward, forever feeling out of place, squished into a container that was all too small and nowhere near the right shape. However many years passed, he could not grow used to the feeling. Existing had become quite exhausting.

His horned head poked out from under a bush and saw a clearing ahead. In the clearing stood a lone Roe deer, a stag. It had not seen Voldemort, but it had sensed him, and it stood still and tall as it scanned the clearing for threats. It was fearful, but not yet ready to give up its ground. With a jolt, Voldemort realized the stag bore a strange but strong resemblance to James Potter all those years ago, right before he died. The man had stood tall in the face of his greatest peril, scared for himself, scared for his family, and ultimately helpless to do anything. But he’d held his place with a strength that Voldemort recognized in the stag’s eyes.

If he could have spat, he would have.

Because with thoughts of James Potter came thoughts of… _him_. Harry Potter. The boy in the prophesy, the final obstacle, the child that should have been powerless against a plimpy-had somehow defeated the greatest dark wizard to have ever risen to power, took the killing curse like it was a cotton ball, and _sent it back_ to its originator, bringing the dark lord closer to death than he had even known was possible. Harry Potter survived, the wizarding world learned to live without fear, and Voldemort’s soul was left to wander the Albanian wilds, powerless and full of hate.

He thought often of Harry. At first, when he had come to terms with what had happened to him, he cursed himself for losing everything at his greatest hour. He went over that night in his mind searching for where he misstepped. What had he missed? What had caused everything to go so wrong? No matter how hard he looked or how many calculations he thought out, Voldemort could find no sense in what had happened. Eventually, he stopped reasoning. He stopped blaming himself. When rationale failed him, he embraced his hate for Harry Potter. Voldemort still felt as though such emotions were beneath him, but they seemed to help solidify his place in this world. Until he could find another anchor, he would cling to this hate, and thoughts of Harry Potter.

Though Voldemort had not moved while reminiscing, the stag gave a snort and leaped out of the clearing and off into the woods. The sudden movement returned Voldemort’s thoughts to the present, and he realized: someone was approaching him. He slithered out from under the bush and tasted the air with his forked tongue. It was not so strange that someone might happen upon him here, for although the village was far off, the forest path was nearby. But this would be no ordinary encounter. _The taste of magic was in the air_.

Voldemort swiveled around and slithered in the direction of the path. Careless trampling could be heard ahead. He could see, through a break in the trees, a man with a young face, a black hat, and a wand in his hand. A _wand_ , and this wizard was alone. Voldemort felt desperation take hold of him. Too many years had the Dark Lord been trapped without magic, without means to return to power. And here, out of nowhere, came a waiting pawn, practically wrapped in a bow. Voldemort vaulted forward to the middle of the path in front of the man and raised his head tall, preparing to strike the man’s mind. The man stopped and stood trembling at the sight in front of him, and then his eyes went very round and wide. “It’s you…I’ve actually found you-I knew you were still alive, somewhere. And now-now I’ve found you, and finally they’ll see me! Finally-”

Voldemort did not care for his ramblings. As the fool spoke, he looked straight into the snake’s eyes, and Voldemort struck. The man fell to the ground as the battle for his mind began. Snippets of memories appeared and it did not even occur to the man to fight the attack. An image of the Hogwarts Great Hall came forward. “Quirrell, Quirinus!” Called out a clear voice over the whispers of the hundreds of children in the room. A small, shaking boy stepped towards the woman holding the sorting hat. But before he could get to the stool he tripped and fell. Laughter broke out and filled the Hall, and the small boy looked up from where he had fallen to see fingers pointed at him as the students laughed. The scene shifted.

Quirrell was now an adult, sitting alone with his hood pulled up over his head in a corner of The Three Broomsticks. A group of people could be heard at a nearby table talking over their drinks. “Quirrell? He teaches muggle studies, but I wouldn’t call him a _real_ professor.” More laughter. The memory faded as another appeared.

In a dark room, Quirrell stood over a table scattered with candles, maps, and books on the Dark Arts. He angrily slammed his fist on the table. “Where do I look? He must be somewhere…Bulgaria? Albania? I’ve got to find him, and then they’ll see. They’ll see what I can do. They’ll look up to me. They will never laugh at me again,” Quirrell murmured darkly. “And Dumbledore-he’ll _have_ to give me the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.”

The forest reappeared around them as Voldemort exited the man’s mind, satisfied with what he had seen. Beyond satisfied. This man, Quirrell, was young and gullible, desperate to be noticed, determined to prove himself. He would make a delightful puppet. And as a Hogwarts professor, he could be very useful. Quirrell, still on the ground, was shaking in terror. Even with Voldemort in such a weakened state, he was no match for the Dark Lord. The snake rose above him. Quirrell looked up but avoided eye contact. “Y-y-y-you-”

“ _Silence_!” Hissed Voldemort, speaking directly into Quirrell’s mind. “What is it you hoped for, seeking me out? Did you think I would submit to you? Did you think you might shackle me, and turn me into the Aurors? Fool! I…am…Lord Voldemort…bow before your master!” Quirrell lowered his head. He was too afraid to speak. “You sought to bring me to my final end. You deserve to be destroyed as you thought you might destroy me. But…I am a merciful Lord…and I will spare you…you will serve me, and I will teach you of true Power, and of the Dark Arts, and when I am done, no one will be laughing.”

Quirrell nodded his head. “Y-y-y-yes,” he stuttered. His eyes met the snake’s, and Voldemort saw not just terror, but a frantic hope. He saw that this man would do anything to be important and acknowledged -even willingly subjugate himself to the Dark Lord. Voldemort basked in Quirrell’s fear. It felt _so good_ to be feared again, to hold this power of domination over someone. His magic crackled around him in anticipation. Finally, it was time for him to make his return. He felt ready to conquer the world.

* * *

Harry Potter spent his early years in misery. As far back as he could remember, he had lived in hiding from his cousin and been squished into a cupboard that was far too small. He dreamed of his parents and wished he could escape to another world. Then one day, this other world came to him in the form of a large man with a bushy beard and a pink umbrella. Harry had never felt so hopeful or so happy, and he couldn’t have been more excited to enter this new world.

* * *

Months passed. Summer faded into fall, and Hogwarts opened up its doors to its students, both new and old. It unknowingly opened its doors to someone else: Lord Voldemort, now attached to the back of Quirrell’s head, hidden beneath his turban. It was…a less than ideal position. But Voldemort was patient, and he would accept some discomfort now if it led to his grand return in the near future. In truth, he knew of a ritual that could return him to his former body-or, at least, close to it-that could have been performed months ago. This had been his intention while he had waited for his followers to find him. Quirrell could have performed it, but through Quirrell’s Hogwarts connections, they learned the location of the _philosopher’s stone_. Voldemort knew the legendary item could offer him not just a new, younger, and eternal body, but even greater powers than he had wielded before. He was willing to wait for the stone-for a glorious and fiery return that would shake all of the wizarding world.

They’d almost had it, back at the end of July. Voldemort had still been in possession of the nose-horned viper’s body. He’d developed an assured plan for Quirrell to infiltrate Gringotts Bank and retrieve the stone. Quirrell was not thrilled with the plan, but he was obedient to his master. He successfully broke into the vault, but the stone had been removed earlier that very same day! When he returned to tell his master the news, Voldemort was furious. How could this fool have come so close, just to fail him?! Voldemort had possessed the snake’s body for many months by then, and it had deteriorated to near disuse. He was left with little choice but to inhabit Quirrell’s body, though Quirrell was highly unhappy with the idea and had protested as much as he dared. Voldemort could keep a closer eye on him this way. Unicorn blood from the forest outside of Hogwarts allowed Quirrell’s body to sustain holding both souls, and Voldemort manifesting on the back of Quirrell’s head.

Now they were in Hogwarts, at the head table, a stone’s throw away from an oblivious Dumbledore. For an unknown reason, Dumbledore had moved the stone to be hidden in the school. It had been an unfortunate setback, but now events were falling into place. He had also given Quirrell the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. Quirrell would need to do some investigating to discover where in the school the stone was, and what was protecting it, but Voldemort was confident he would have the stone in a matter of months. Until then, he would tolerate the inside of the turban and think of all the changes he would bring to the world once it was his.

Voldemort paid little attention to the sounds outside of the turban until he heard, “Potter, Harry!” called out. He hadn’t realized the Sorting Ceremony had begun, and the name of the boy drew his sharp attention. The whole Hall had gone very quiet for a pause, and then whispers broke all over the hall.

" _Potter_ , did she say?"

“ _The_ Harry Potter?"

Voldemort could hear the wonder and admiration in their voices. Harry Potter…had become famous…because of that night? Of course, he had-he had survived the killing curse, and somehow defeated the greatest Dark Lord in history…and now he was being praised for it. The _brat_. What a life he must have been living. Voldemort had already known that he would need to dispose of the boy when he made his return to power-there was still the matter of the prophesy-but now he had a new drive. It would be about making a statement. Their precious _boy who lived_ would fall, and the wizarding world would fear him once again. Yes, it would give Voldemort great pleasure snuffing out the boy’s life.

“GRYFFINDOR!” called out the hat. Voldemort glared into the darkness of the turban. _Of course_ Harry Potter was in Gryffindor, like his wretched parents. His sorting received the loudest applause yet from the students. Voldemort thought he even heard shouts of, “We got Potter! We got Potter!" It was a small thing, but it gave Voldemort another reason to hate Harry.

The Sorting finished up, Dumbledore said a few words, and the feast began. Quirrell had been sat beside Severus Snape. The Hogwarts potions master. Dumbledore’s right-hand man. It had been years since Voldemort had decided he would need to kill Severus because of his love for Lilly Potter. But surely, after all this time, those feelings no longer had a hold on him. In that case, Voldemort could have his most talented spy back. On the other hand, Severus had held his position at Dumbledore’s side for years now, and Voldemort did not know if he could be trusted. He was not about to expose himself to Severus in his weakened state and risk losing his chance of getting the stone. For now, Quirrell was to interact with him, and Voldemort would closely monitor his former spy. Quirrell turned now to talk to Snape-he asked about the professor’s experience in potions making. This had Voldemort positioned to face the crowd of students.

That’s when he felt it. A…pull. It was subtle, and not physical, but it was almost like there was a string caught at the bridge of his nose, and whoever was on the other end was holding it just tight enough for the string to be taught. Voldemort couldn’t see-he was still beneath the turban-but he knew beyond certainty that at the other end of that imaginary string…was Harry Potter. He also knew, somehow, that the boy was also experiencing this, was feeling something-pain?-but then the pull disappeared. What had that been? Some strange remnants of the impossible rebounded killing curse? The boy’s unknown power, mentioned in the prophecy? ' _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…_ ' Was it simply fate, wanting to intimidate him for tying to overcome it years ago? Voldemort mused over this. Fate did not exist in a way he could threaten or directly attack. Nonetheless, Voldemort intended to defeat it. He would bend fate to his will.


	3. Chapter 3

Spring. Voldemort had expected that his war would have been nearly won by spring. Or at least progressing. The philosopher's stone should have been a memory by now. He’d have his own body, and glory, and the fear of the wizarding world. But spring had come, and he was still a parasite on the back of his sniveling servant’s head. Voldemort’s confidence at the start of the term had long since withered into bitter impatience, which Quirrell took the brunt of. Voldemort had first planned for his return to be on Halloween. The idea of returning on the anniversary of his disappearance had seemed…poetic. But Quirrell had failed him once more on that night.

Now months had passed and a new opportunity had not yet arisen. Quirrell’s body was taking a toll, so Voldemort instructed him to go to the forest to find another unicorn-though Quirrell had initially been reluctant to kill another of the innocent beasts. They had found and slain one and Quirrell was bent over the animal, drinking its life-sustaining blood-when only a few feet from them, someone screamed. Quirrell, hooded so that whoever was there could not make out his face, raised his head. He could feel the silver unicorn blood dripping down his chin. A blond-haired boy and a dog were running from the scene, but another boy stay stood where he was, staring in horror at the hooded terror in front of him. It was Harry Potter. Quirrell began moving towards him, while whispering, “Master, it is Potter.”

Voldemort instantly felt that mysterious pull again, and the rage of months of waiting and delays took over him. He had been waiting _too long_ for a victory, and here came his greatest disgrace and the cause of his downfall, practically offering himself up. At that moment, Voldemort didn’t care about the message he had wanted to send when he rose back to power. He simply craved death-Harry Potter’s death. “ _Kill him!_ ” he hissed.

He hadn’t noticed that the boy had started crying out in pain at the same moment Voldemort had felt the pull.

Before Quirrell could get to Harry, the sound of hooves galloping could be heard, and a great centaur burst from behind Harry, jumping right over him, and landed between Quirrell and Harry. Voldemort came to his senses. He had let his emotions rule over him. He was disgusted with himself. He realized he was at risk of discovery, so he urged Quirrell to flee. He would wait…but Harry-the boy who incredulously made the Dark Lord lose control of his emotions-would, someday, burn at Voldemort’s hands.

* * *

It was time. It was finally time. Voldemort, still attached to Quirrell, was in the chamber where he would find the stone and finally restore his power. It had been a lengthy campaign to get to this moment. Years of solitude without a body. Many failures of his sole servant. And a number of tests just to get into this final chamber. But how much sweeter it would be for how long he had waited. But no more. It was time. Only…he didn’t know how to get the stone. He knew he would find it here, and that this mysterious mirror was a part of it, but still, the philosopher’s stone eluded him.

Quirrell looked into the mirror and could see himself handing the stone to his master-thus gaining his bodily freedom-something he wanted more than anything else after the last several months. But how was he supposed to get the thing?

Steps could be heard from where they had entered the chamber, and Quirrell turned from the mirror to face none other than Harry Potter.

"You!" gasped Harry.

Quirrell smiled. "Me," he said calmly. "I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here, Potter."

"But I thought -- Snape --"

"Severus?" Quirrell laughed. He truly was in quite a good mood at the prospect of having his body back to himself, pleasing his intimidating master, and standing behind the most feared wizard of all time come back to life. “Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't he? So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?"

"But Snape tried to kill me!" Harry seemed to be in disbelief.

"No, no, no. I tried to kill you. Your friend Miss Granger accidentally knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match. She broke my eye contact with you. Another few seconds and I'd have got you off that broom. I'd have managed it before then if Snape hadn't been muttering a counter curse, trying to save you."

"Snape was trying to save me?"

"Of course," said Quirrell coolly. "Why do you think he wanted to referee your next match? He was trying to make sure I didn't do it again.” Severus had indeed made himself an obstacle many times that past year. It had been incredibly frustrating. Still, Voldemort could not tell if his former spy was truly loyal to Dumbledore now, or only continuing to play the role, not knowing he was working against his Lord. “Funny, really...he needn't have bothered. I couldn't do anything with Dumbledore watching. All the other teachers thought Snape was trying to stop Gryffindor from winning, he did make himself unpopular...and what a waste of time, when after all that, you’re going to die tonight." Quirrell snapped his fingers then, and ropes wrapped tightly around Harry. Voldemort listened to all this with considerable interest. Quirrell had been disappointing as a servant thus far, but now Voldemort wondered if the man might be more useful if applied in a slightly different manner. "You're too nosy to live, Potter. Scurrying around the school on Halloween like that, for all I knew you'd seen me coming to look at what was guarding the Stone."

"You let the troll in?"

"Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls -- you must have seen what I did to the one in the chamber back there? Unfortunately, while everyone else was running around looking for it, Snape, who already suspected me, went straight to the third floor to head me off -- and not only did my troll fail to beat you to death, that three-headed dog didn't even manage to bite Snape's leg off properly. Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror.”

Quirrell turned back to face the mirror. "This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," he murmured. "Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this...but he's in London...I'll be far away by the time he gets back..."

"I saw you and Snape in the forest --" Harry blurted out.

"Yes," said Quirrell. He walked around the mirror to look at the back. "He was on to me by that time, trying to find out how far I'd got. He suspected me all along. Tried to frighten me - as though he could, when I had Lord Voldemort on my side...” Quirrell walked back to the front of the mirror. “I see the Stone...I'm presenting it to my master...but where is it?"

"But Snape always seemed to hate me so much." Harry was persistent to keep asking his questions.

"Oh, he does," said Quirrell. "Heavens, yes. He was at Hogwarts with your father, didn't you know? They loathed each other. But he never wanted you dead."

"But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing -- I thought Snape was threatening you..."

Quirrell blanched at the memory of the classroom, where Voldemort had told him to return to the forest for another unicorn, and he had dared to resist. "Sometimes," he said, "I find it hard to follow my master's instructions-he is a great wizard and I am weak-"

"You mean he was there in the classroom with you?" Harry gasped.

"He is with me wherever I go," said Quirrell quietly. "I met him when I traveled around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it...Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me." Quirrell shivered suddenly. "He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me...decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me..." Quirrell cursed and returned his focus to the mirror. "I don't understand...is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it? What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!"

Voldemort was growing impatient. There was no telling how long Dumbledore would be away, and there was no point in keeping himself hidden from Harry Potter now anyway. He spoke from beneath the turban, “Use the boy...Use the boy...”

Quirrell quickly rounded on Harry and released him from the ropes that bound him. "Yes -- Potter -- come here. Come here, and look in the mirror and tell me what you see." He moved Harry in front of the mirror. A few seconds passed. "Well?" said Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?"

Voldemort held his breath, anxious to hear what Harry would say. "I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," the boy said shakily. "I -- I've won the house cup for Gryffindor."

Quirrell cursed again. "Get out of the way.”

Voldemort scowled. He’d come so close, been through too much-and now he was held up by a nonsensible puzzle? But-wait- _Harry was lying_. Voldemort was a skilled legilimens, and Harry, of course, had no experience in Occlumency. Even from the turban, Voldemort could sense the lie. "He lies...He lies..."

"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted. "Tell me the truth! What did you just see?"

Voldemort was done waiting on the side. Quirrell was forceful and tactless. Potter was recklessly brave and would not be scared into submission. The situation required some...Slytherin cunning. "Let me speak to him...face-to-face..."

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough...for this..."

Quirrell began unraveling the turban and it fell away. He turned so Voldemort faced Harry. The Dark Lord took in the sight of the boy. This was the first time he’s seen Harry since the night he’d tried to kill him. Harry was short, but he still stood tall. With his messy black hair and glasses, he resembled his father, Voldemort thought, remembering that night. Except for his eyes. The young boy’s eyes were like his mother's, green and desperate, as they stared into Voldemort’s own red eyes.

"Harry Potter..." he whispered. "See what I have become? Mere shadow and vapor...I have form only when I can share another's body...but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds...Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks...you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest...and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own...Now...why don't you give me that stone in your pocket?" Harry’s eyes widened in shock at hearing this, much to Voldemort’s amusement. Harry started backing up. "Don't be a fool," snarled Voldemort. "Better save your own life and join me...or you'll meet the same end as your parents...They died begging me for mercy..."

“LIAR!” Harry shouted.

Voldemort smiled. "How touching..." he hissed. "I always value bravery...Yes, boy, your parents were brave...I killed your father first; and he put up a courageous fight...but your mother needn't have died...she was trying to protect you...Now give me the stone, unless you want her to have died in vain."

"NEVER!" Harry began running back towards the flaming doorway.

Voldemort snarled. So, the boy was brave _and_ strong-willed. Fine. Voldemort had never been opposed to more direct ways of getting what he wanted. "SEIZE HIM!" he screamed at Quirrell. Quirrell reached for Harry and grabbed his wrist. Harry burst out in screams of pain, and for some reason, Quirrell let him go. "Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" shrieked Voldemort again, not able to see what was happening. He _needed_ _that stone_!

Quirrell hesitated, then lunged at Harry, knocking him to the ground and landing on top of him with his hands around the boy’s throat. Harry was screaming in pain again, and Quirrell cried out as well. "Master, I cannot hold him-my hands-my hands!"

"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort. They were too close to achieving victory to give up. Quirrell raised his wand to do his master's bidding, when Harry reached up and grabbed his face.

"AAAARGH!" Quirrell was howling in pain and backed away from the boy, but after a second, Harry got up after him and hung tightly onto his arm. They were both screaming in pain together. Quirrell tried to shake Harry off of his arm, but Harry held tight. Voldemort was completely lost as to what was happening. All he knew was this was not going according to plan, and he would not stand another mess up because of this insufferable boy! "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" he screamed at his servant. Harry was slipping from Quirrell’s arm, as if fainting, but it was too late for Quirrell. His hands had burned where they’d first grabbed Harry, and his face was bubbling in blisters. His arm where Harry had been clinging had turned black now and began to crumble into ash. “THE STONE, GET THE STONE!”

Quirrell’s only hope now was to revive his master, so that Voldemort might save him. He stepped forward and reached with his one good arm towards Harry. Voldemort heard someone coming, yelling Harry’s name. It was Dumbledore. The Dark Lord knew they had failed, and any chance of acquiring the stone was forever gone. He had to flee, now, before Dumbledore entered the room and made sure Voldemort could never return again. Voldemort extracted himself from Quirrell and experienced, for the first time in a long time, existing as nothing. If he had a body, he would have shuddered. Or vomited. But he didn’t have time to think about that, or the stone, or even Harry. He wisped away moments before the headmaster entered the chamber. He fled to the forest once more, enraged, humiliated, and right back at where he’d started.

Quirrell had no strength left. When Dumbledore pulled him off of Harry, he fell to the floor. The impact broke off his arm, which left a crumbling stub. His master had abandoned him. A child had bested him. His body had failed him. With his last breaths, he thought he heard the faintest sound of laughter.


End file.
